Regrets
by Inked-Pawprints
Summary: "The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, burning and bitter; he had bit his tongue in fear. Spitting out red, he turned his head away from the night and pressed into the corner of the walls, trying to escape the flood of regrets and memories." /Oneshot / PruCan


He rocked back and forth, curled into a tight ball and clutching strands of silver in his hands, fingertips pressed into his skull unrelentingly. Tears had long since started to flow, wet tracks against pale cheeks becoming ruddy from the sobs that wracked his body.

Night pooled on the floor, deep and dark with unfulfilled promises and hopes. He choked back a strangled whimper, the sound broken and small in the large room. Swallowing the fear clawing its way up his throat, he resumed his quiet keening, lost and alone.

He could see them all, each one mocking and gruesome, his past finally dredged up by the hours of deathly black. He could see again who he used to be, strong and brutal and ruthless, killing without regard. And he could see all the lives he had taken, all the faces, all the screams. He could hear again the resounding echo of a musket, and shivers shot up his spine faster than the bullet would hit.

He couldn't remember exactly how he had come to be like this, but the resounding feeling of abandonment that cloaked his senses in misery and turmoil was what kept the tears flowing. He had never liked to be alone; company was his escape from thinking about the crimes he had committed.

He could see the necks in the nooses, the blood painting the floor, the bones pinched and abnormally turned in their sockets. He could see it so clearly, the scenes still sharp in his mind.

The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, burning and bitter; he had bit his tongue in fear. Spitting out red, he turned his head away from the night and pressed into the corner of the walls, trying to escape the flood of regrets and memories.

He knew he deserved it though; it was one of the reasons he had sent the good in his life away for the weekend, feeling the symptoms start and knowing what he would be in for. Canada had left, albeit worriedly, and he had been grateful. He never wanted his love to see him at his lowest point, shattered and frozen in past events.

He wound himself tighter, feeling the unsteady beat of his heart against the thin cotton shirt he wore. The aberrant sound crashed in his ears and hastened his breathing; he was so, so afraid of the scenes that flashed through his mind as the minutes stretched on, the ticking on the wall counting every second that passed.

Wishing it would stop, he cracked his jaw to the sky in silent agony, rich crimson eyes fixed on the ceiling.

He knew all countries suffered their losses.

He knew Canada would be home soon.

He knew it would be over.

He sat there, huddled and mute, muscles made stiff as the hours passed and mind muddled with the images of his dead, the memories sending his skin crawling with the flashbacks of gore and splatter-painted sights. He didn't know when he gave in, but his dreams were the same, riddled with the same haunts that seeped through his consciousness. He had no escape.

It was early morning when he came to; he could make out that much. He knew he hadn't stopped crying, as his shirt was damp with the pain of remembrance.

He did know that someone was holding him gently, rocking and humming soothingly. Grabbing at the other's shirt, he clutched at the fabric like a lifeline. Realizing he was awake, Canada pulled him into a hug while he finally snapped, fresh sobs and new torment becoming apparent.

He cried because of the revelations that hit him; he would never be good for Canada. Never be able to give the same care, never be able to love without fear of losing what he cherished most in life. He lost track of the present, and realized with a jolt that he had been speaking when throat finally gave out.

His blond was silent, never ceasing his rocking of them both. Sighing, he spoke in a whisper, cradling Prussia's head and pressing him into his chest.

"Prussia. I'll always be here. I don't care if you can't provide for us, or if you're going to be like this for the next millennium or so, or the fact that you can be rude and annoying and brash. Forever is a long time, and it's how long I expect to be by your side. It's okay to be afraid of death. And if you go, then so will I. You are who I love."

He lost himself in that voice, the only sound that would ever be able to calm him. He loved him with his entire world, and would never see the want to leave such an irreplaceable love like the one given to him.

He nuzzled deeper into their embrace, tangled together on the floor in a wordless affection. Canada was all he would ever want.

The arms around him tightened, and the same soft voice spoke for a final time before he drifted off again.

"I love you too, Prussia." were the last words he remembered, joy and warmth returning to his world in a burning sense of relief. He could deal with these breaks, these agony-filled moments if Canada would be by his side.

And Canada would be, just as Prussia would always be next to him. Forever.


End file.
